


Red Wall

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:16:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Another example of what happens when you can't think of a title. Oh dear. But at least you know the picture it's based on, right? Sure you do.)</p><p>Greg and Mycroft are staying at a hotel. Some event Mycroft is supposed to be at. Greg gets called away, and comes back in the wee hours to find...this. </p><p>...I just really like that picture, and the idea that it *could* be Mycroft, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Wall

Lestrade saw the light under the door, so he knew what he would find before he opened it. Well, roughly speaking, more or less. Mycroft Holmes looked like he might have been asleep in the chair in front of the mantel, but raised his head as Greg shut the door. “You made it back,” he said smoothly.

Greg blinked at him, then ducked his head to get a better look at Mycroft’s tired, solemn face. “Yeah. How long have you been waiting?” He crossed the room to the dresser, emptying his pockets on the way.

“Mm, not long.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “Were you successful?”

“Yeah, it went all right. I’m sorry I didn’t make it back in time,” Greg added, keeping a wary eye on Mycroft as he took off his coat and jacket. “How was it?”

Mycroft turned his head slightly, and raised a silk top hat in his right hand, turning it significantly in silent response.

Greg laughed quietly. “You are _drunk,_ Mycroft.”

“I have certainly consumed enough alcohol to be so,” Mycroft said, nodding. “It seems very likely.”

“God, you must have been a sight,” Greg said fondly, dropping down into the other chair in the room. “Was Sherlock there?”

“Good heavens, no.” Mycroft’s voice was very slow, as if he were reciting a lecture from memory. His movements were slower, as well; he’d lowered his hand with the hat, and it hung limply across the arm of the chair. “No, just me, about forty men, and seventeen million young women in corsets.”

“Eh?”

Mycroft shook his head, the fingers of his left hand absently spinning a very tall walking stick, the tip resting against the floor. “I have no explanation.”

“I mean, corsets?”

“Perhaps not all of them. But enough.”

Greg’s eyes went wide as he reached down to untie his shoes. “Why so many women?”

“You understand that the ‘million’ part is a joke.”

“Well, _yes.”_

“Maybe seventeen hundred.”

“My question is, why so many more women than men?” Greg sighed, grinning. “You really are high as the moon and the stars.”

“Pleasantly so, yes. I would guess that the women enjoy the dress code more than the men.” He shrugged. “Although it may have had something to do with the guest of honour.”

“He’s a writer, for God’s sake. Since when do they become sex symbols?”

“You don’t speak to many women, do you?”

“Yes I do,” Greg said, wrinkling his nose. “And again, why women?”

“I can’t give you precise psychological profiles for each of them, but an author whose speciality is character always tends to be a little more popular with women than men. Women generally read more fiction than men do.”

“I just don’t...” Greg shook his head and trailed off. “No, never mind. Did you have a nice time at least? Or is that what lead to the drinking?”

“It was enjoyable,” Mycroft said, as if just deciding this. “Yes, it was. I did wait for you in the bar as long as I felt was decent,” he added. “But it was getting...difficult.” He shifted on the chair.

“Oh?” Greg asked archly, suspecting he knew.

“Yes.”

“So what does difficult mean, for Mycroft Holmes left alone with a crowd of corseted fiction readers?”

Mycroft glanced up at him, realised Greg was teasing him, and smiled. “Yes, all right. I wasn’t expecting you to miss the entire evening, though,” he went on defensively. “If I had known, I might not have gone.”

“Well, it’s always a possibility with us,” Greg said with a shrug, waving his hand. “I just want to know what happened. I can tell you’re leaving bits out.”

“You want me to brag about conquests.”

“You had conquests? There were _conquests?_ I missed conquests happening? You conquested?”

“No, no, no, no. Of course not. Which you know is my point.” He paused. “I was very good.”

“I’ll bet you were. Any kisses?”

Mycroft gave him a look. “That’s indiscreet.”

“I fucking _own_ your arse. And your nips, and your balls and your cock. You are mine, and I want to know what’s been happening to my property while I’ve been away.” Greg looked away, knowing he’d never keep a straight face if he actually kept his eyes on Mycroft’s. He flicked his fingers rapidly, palm up. “Come on, tell me.”

“Nothing...communicable.”

Greg snorted in surprise, then laughed a bit. “Oh? It’s too dirty to tell?”

“No, no no,” Mycroft said again. “I mean... nothing that would have lead to needing to use that word.”

“No bodily fluids exchanged? I find that heartening.” 

“You’re enjoying this, you malicious little trickster.”

“Of course I am!” Greg scoffed. “Details! Was there kissing?”

“...Yes.”

“Tongues?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“It’s happened before,” Greg pointed out.

“Special circumstances,” Mycroft said, sounding surprisingly sober for a moment. “And anyway, I was on the receiving end of nearly all of them.”

Greg sighed, looking him over. “Scrubbed off the lipstick already?”

“Don’t worry. There were cameras.”

“Jesus.” Greg sat bolt upright. “There were _photographs?”_

Mycroft smiled languidly. “Greg, have you ever tried to take a photograph of me against my will?”

“Why the hell would I?”

“Think, Inspector. _Think._ Have you? You have _not._ And how many photographs of previous lovers have you had to delete or destroy?”

Greg shook his head. “I’ve...I gave them back, or... Hang on, is this rhetorical Holmes crap? Or do you actually not know?”

“Think,” Mycroft said again, his voice comically stern and deep.

“Look, you’re drunk, and I’m tired, and I don’t know what level of nonsense I should be operating on.”

“Greg, it’s _me.”_

“Right.” He sighed. “Yeah, okay, I’ve done... yeah, they’re called ‘candid,’ got it? When you’re taking unexpected pictures of someone?”

“I do know the meaning, yes, Gregory,” Mycroft said, nodding heavily.

“’Kay. So yeah, done it. But... no, I’ve never...” He sat up again. “Hang on, I _haven’t_ done any of you.”

“Now is not the time,” Mycroft said quickly, opening his eyes wide, but not looking at Greg.

“What were you trying to say?” Greg asked, leaning forward again, rubbing his forehead with his palms.

“Any photos of me from this evening will be blurry, poorly aimed, or otherwise faulty. If they were remotely incriminating.”

“Or, in fact, deleted.”

“That too.”

“So I have no pictures of you with lipstick on your face.”

Mycroft tilted the silk top hat in his fingers and dropped it over the top of the cane, and held out one long finger to Greg, his eyes wide, pursing his lips. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone, swiveling it around, and leaned forward, stretching his arm out to Greg.

Greg took the phone, and looked down at the screen. It was a profile picture of Mycroft, leaning against the bar. His jacket hung on the back of the barstool next to him, one foot balanced on the footrail. The hat was resting on the seat of the stool, and Mycroft’s head was bent as he studied something in his hands, looking quite relaxed, with two different shades of lipsticked kisses visible on his cheek.

A smile spread across Greg’s face, and he stroked his fingers across the screen of the phone, enlarging the image, zooming in on Mycroft’s face. The lips were slightly parted, his hair touseled across his forehead, one of the kisses just catching the edge of his lips. “How the hell did you get this?” Greg asked, still staring at it.

“I thought you’d like it.”

“But you didn’t take it.”

“I did not,” Mycroft agreed. “Someone else did. Someone who was just a little too tipsy to realise she’d left her bluetooth switched on. Once I got the image, I switched it off for her.”

“And deleted the image?” Greg asked, grinning up at him briefly before looking back at the photo.

“Hmm. No.”

“What? You let her keep this?”

“Part of what makes me so very good at my job, Gregory - and you at yours, come to that - is that we are very, _very_ good at knowing who we can trust.”

“Usually your rule there is ‘no one.’”

“The image is safe,” Mycroft said, avoiding the jibe with a shake of his head. “And I knew you’d want to thank her.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I would.”

“Happy birthday, Gregory.”

Greg looked up at him, startled. “No, but... oh.” He looked at his watch; it was well past midnight. “Cheers.”

“To bed?”

“Yeah.” Greg stood, held his hand out to pull Mycroft to his feet. “This photographer.”

“Yes?”

“Was she one of the ones wearing a corset?”


End file.
